


A Celestial Amongst Demons

by Phoenixfire426



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Depression, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Past Abuse, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Ron Weasley Bashing, Stalking, Substance Abuse, Unconscious Touching, unconscious orgasm, underage groping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-09 17:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17410775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixfire426/pseuds/Phoenixfire426
Summary: Antonin Dolohov knew from the moment he found out Hermione Granger had survived his curse at the Battle of the Department of Mysteries that she was intriguing to say the least.  It wasn't until after a few weeks of following her on the Dark Lord's orders that he became a man obsessed with the young witch.After the Dark Lord falls he finds himself enslaved to his obsession.Unable to keep away he follows the muggleborn to a party at the latest Minister of Magic's Manor for an annual victory ball where she soon comes to find herself completely at his mercy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: J K Rowling is a goddess among us who created the Harry Potter universe, I only wish I had the pure hilarity and imagination that woman possesses so I could've done it first and taken credit for the amazing characters she produced.
> 
> I've chosen to not include any archive warnings in this fic but please be warned that this story may get a little dark as the chapters go on.
> 
> Antonin Dolohov is to be portrayed by Jeffrey Dean Morgan  
> Hermione Granger is of course Emma Watson  
> Ron Weasley is Rupert Grint  
> Walden Macnair is Ian McShane  
> Rabastan Lestrange is Colin Farrell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: J K Rowling is a goddess among us who created the Harry Potter universe, I only wish I had the pure hilarity and imagination that woman possesses so I could've done it first and taken credit for the amazing characters she produced.
> 
> I've chosen to not include any archive warnings in this fic but please be warned that this story may get a little dark as the chapters go on.
> 
> Antonin Dolohov is to be portrayed by Jeffrey Dean Morgan  
> Hermione Granger is of course Emma Watson  
> Ron Weasley is Rupert Grint  
> Walden Macnair is Ian McShane  
> Rabastan Lestrange is Henry Cavill

She moved with the grace he had once thought impossible for a witch of her blood.  She almost floated as she walked amongst starlight.  He realised with curious observation that he’d never even known a pureblood witch to move with the elegance and poise she held, even Lucius’ wife, Narcissa, who was a perfect picture of pureblood sophistication and class, was sorely lacking something that the young witch out in the Minister’s lavish gardens was not.  She moved over to the opening of the grounds that overlooked the Scottish highlands, putting one hand onto the steel, black railings and taking a sip from her glass and wincing at the strong alcohol content before bringing her dainty fingers to her lips and humming with satisfaction probably as the burn made its way down her soft throat.

He chuckled to himself, recognising some of the old her breaking forth from her matured, cool aura, but not allowing his presence to be known to her, knowing it would more than likely only frighten her.

He mused that she wanted to be out here in the fresh air, away from the smothering party that was seemingly thrown in the Golden Trio’s honour on the anniversary of the fall of the Dark Lord. She undoubtedly also wanted to be away from the people like him, those who still called her ‘mudblood’ in hushed circles, who deemed her lower and subservient, and who had followed the Dark Lord nearly through to the other side.  The ones who had been invited to the party tonight had been either spared imprisonment, or had only served a short sentence.  The Minister had to be seen attempting to make amends with both sides.  Lucius Malfoy and his son, Draco, were amongst those invited, of course. Those silver-tongued, privileged purebloods were able to worm their way out of any mess and this was no exception.  Ever since Narcissa had defied the Dark Lord and lied about Harry Potter’s mortal state, and the Golden Trio, with a push from the mudblood, had begrudgingly testified for the young Malfoy boy, confirming he was under duress and, by consequence, so was Lucius towards the end, the Wizengamot found it fit to order them to one and a half years of house arrest followed by community service to Hogwarts for a year.  Now they were all free.  Free to do as the wished, and that they did.  To help his sentence along, and to help his family remain on top of the pureblood pyramid, Lucius fabricated stories of the Dark Lord’s reign, and those who were under the Imperius Curse.  He decided that those who held power and would be beneficial to be in his debt were also those whose claims of being cursed and forced into the Dark Lord’s services were true.  In order to give his word some merit there were the followers who Lucius had deemed of no use and those were the followers who he had fed to the wolves. 

Antonin Dolohov was wolf meat. 

He was sure of it the second the Dark Lord had fallen. He knew that his reputation for being creative when it came to coercing information out of order members was well know through Potter’s ranks.  He also knew that the mudblood, Gryffindor princess would not show him the same considerations she extended to the Malfoys, due to the long purple and white scar on her skin, courtesy of his curse. 

 

**____________________________**

 

_It should have killed her._

He remembered thinking the same thing when the Dark Lord informed him that his attempt to kill Potter’s mudblood had failed.  That’s when his morbid curiosity of her started.  To ease the Dark Lord’s wrath and disappointment in him, he’d sworn to his master he’d spill her wretched blood in all the ways she would fear worst.

From that night, he followed her almost anywhere he could. Of course, he was unable to go anywhere near her whilst she kept behind the walls of Hogwarts but whilst she was at home for summer or any other school breaks, he’d watch and follow her out in the muggle world, he’d watch her mother and father, he’d watch her in her home, and even he’d watch her whilst she slept. 

He remembered the first time he visited her at night, he’d apparated outside her bedroom window, not wanting to awaken her with the sudden noise of his entrance and not knowing whether the girl had set wards up around her house.  Yes, she was a mudblood and normally he would assume there’d be no wards, however with _this_ mudblood he wasn’t so sure.  He had heard about her power and intelligence and as such, nothing was to be assumed.  He’d looked around her bedroom, tracing his fingers over the bindings of her books on the shelves and flicking open one, he skimmed his index finger down the page. He sneered at the muggle fairy tale of a child in a red cloak being stalked by a large wolf, the irony not lost on him.  As the young witch grumbled his eyes snapped over to her, frozen in his place.  With her eyes still closed she turned onto her back, her duvet sliding down her torso ever so slightly, revealing her navel to her hips where here shirt had ridden up, the purple and white slash exposed.  He closed the book slowly and replaced it back on her shelf, his eyes never leaving his mark on her, he carefully stalked over to her to get a better look, finding himself hypnotised by the swirling duotone colours.  He dusted a finger over her hip, wondering if, like many magical scars, anything would happen.  At his touch she sighed softly and wriggled her legs slightly whilst he felt a sort of magical surge within him and was sure she felt it also given her reaction.  He raised an eyebrow and smirked slightly at the results.  He rose from her bed, not wanting to disturb her for the night further and promptly left, knowing he’d return the following night.

After a couple of weeks of following and watching her sleep, he realised she was mesmerising to him, even at that age.  How had this little mudblood witch evaded death from his curse? Sitting on the edge of her bed as she slept, he traced his fingers over her skin without touching her, she was barely sixteen after all.  The only time he’d touch her would be to brush the hair from her sleeping face, or to trace along the scar he’d left her and feeling the magic surge between them, making sure to not touch her in any inappropriate areas, although he suspected what he was doing would be deemed inappropriate by many. 

He inwardly seethed at the stupidity of the mudblood under his fingers. What kind of stupid girl doesn’t put up wards on her home, knowing the Dark Lord has returned and a price has been lain upon her head?  So much for the smartest witch of her age.  He wasn’t entirely sure why at the time but he unsheathed his wand and began murmuring the incantations, to allow himself and the girl alone the use of magic in her home.  He knew he was to kill her soon, the Dark Lord was unimpressed that he’d not done it already, but his sinister fascination with the mudblood was peaking as each night the magical bond between them seemed to elicit a stronger reaction.  He couldn’t risk the Dark Lord sending anyone to finish the job he’d started before his captivation for the girl ran dry.

As the year went by Hermione left for Hogwarts and his contact with her was limited.  She occasionally went into Hogsmeade, but again, he could only watch her from afar, he learnt a great deal from watching her, he knew her fears of failure and rejection of her peers, and he knew she was happiest when she was conversing about a subject she was passionate about or teasing her friends with her brilliant brain, but this intel was far from what the Dark Lord wanted, he wanted Antonin to murder the little witch and without contact that wasn’t looking like a possibility anytime soon.  The more time spent apart from the girl, the more Antonin realised he was becoming obsessed, the more he craved to touch her scar, watch her sleep and brush her hair from her face.  He hated the little mudblood. He hated that she survived his curse, that she was taunting him by being alive, taunting him with her desirable skin that held his scar, that she had _his_ magic inside of her.  The Dark Lord was right, the mudbloods were stealing their magic.  Of course, _his own_ magic never felt depleted, in fact it felt stronger when he was around her, but surely that meant she _had_ his magic, didn’t it?!  He couldn’t be certain.  He needed to be near her, but he couldn’t figure out how.  He needed her scent and the magic. He needed to kill her.

The day the Dark Lord found out about this nefarious obsession he laughed Antonin to scorn along with those in his inner circle and Antonin felt his reputational anger pound through his skull like a crazed beast.  He’d known how ludicrous his fixation on the mudblood was, he’d known that his little fantasies were hopeless, and he’d been more than aware that she was an underage witch and he nearly thirty years her senior.  The Dark Lord tortured Antonin for good measure, to knock some sense into him before advising that there was a mission to lead his followers into the school, where Antonin could have finally murdered his little mudblood, however learning of his attachments and morbid fascination of the girl, his master informed him that he would not being joining them for this and his task to kill Hermione Granger was absolved and would be taken over by a more deserving member of his followers.  He was, however, left with a promise that if Antonin proved himself worthy and the mudblood survived the war, he would be rewarded accordingly.

The summer Dumbledore died at the hand of Severus, the Granger girl moved to The Weasley residence, better known as The Burrow.  Of course, this was after their reckless mission of retrieving Potter from his home.  The Dark Lord had granted Antonin to be one of the many Death Eaters to be tasked to kill Potter and his team on this transportation.  This was the kind of chaos that Antonin normally thrived in.  Spells and curses were flying around wildly as they flew on broomsticks after the Potter boy and it quickly came to their attention that the Boy Who Lived appeared to be in many places at once.  Antonin growled the moment he realised…

_Polyjuice!_

Not only could he not tell which Potter was the real one in order to dispose of him and win the Dark Lord’s favour back, but he also had no idea which one was the mudblood (and he was positive she was one of them, after all, she was fiercely protective of her friends) and he couldn’t risk killing her, or having another of his comrades assassinate her.  He begrudgingly threw up a _Protego_ around himself and flew around, sending mild stinging jinxing and the occasional stunning spell at the members of the Order he recognised.  Once the battle had died down word had come that Mad Eye Moody was dead, along with a few of his brothers in arms he wasn’t familiar with and one of the Potters had been maimed.

 _Maimed but not killed_.

He remembered thinking with relief.

Antonin knew Granger was friends with the Weasley boy and couldn’t help but agree the burrow was a safer place for her to reside in than her muggle home but it annoyed him greatly.  It was easier for him to sneak into her bedroom at her muggle home, here he was certain they would have wards and protection spells in place to keep people like him out.  He knew he’d be able to break through their wards with ease, now that he knew where she was, it was only the amount of people in one, small house that made him wary. There was a good chance he’d get caught, and in that instance, with 9 Weasleys in the house and more guests belonging to the Order, he knew he’d be unable to escape. 

He went in anyway.

It was getting more and more difficult to resist the pull of his magic inside her and he knew she could feel it too.  She was anxious and aggravated during the days but when he visited at night, she looked peaceful and content, almost like she was pleased to see him without ever opening her eyes.

The last night he spent with her whilst she slept before the war ended, he’d felt like he’d known he wasn’t to see he again for a long time.  Even with the Weasley girl in the room, he sat softly on her bed, turning her gently so she laid once more on her back, feeling his craving to touch her overwhelm him, he allowed himself to push up her shirt and began tracing the scar once more, he heard the telltale signs of her magical bond to him work its way through her as she softly gasped when the pad of his fingers touched her hip. He worked his fingers up past her navel and across her ribs, causing a moan to slip through her lips, he felt the magic pulse inside of him the more he felt of her scar and he couldn’t help but groan in tandem. Greedily, he allowed his second hand to start at her collar bone and drift down her chest, his eyes heavy and lust-filled as he watched her face contort in ecstasy, her small body squirming for release beneath him.  His hard length inside of his trousers throbbed painfully, wanting to be buried in between her thighs as her back arched and he knew she was about to explode from what he could only assume to be her first ever orgasm.

“Sirius?” from behind him he heard the small, sleepy voice of the youngest Weasley girl, stirring from her slumber.

He immediately retracted his hands from the mudblood and once again her sleep was peaceful, she looked so serene in her rest that if it weren’t for the blush still tinging her cheeks, he have wondered if perhaps he’d been fantasising the entire affair.  He stood slowly and walked out of the girls’ room, his heart thudding in his chest, not looking to see if she’d fallen back to sleep, although due to the lack of alarm that was raised as he left the Burrow, he figured that she’d perhaps thought she was dreaming and swiftly dozed back off.

 

**____________________________**

 

He laughed to himself as he watched the petite brunette, now 24 years old, all curves and grace, taking another swig from her tumbler glass, possibly to warm herself on this cold night.  He supposed from behind, nearly eight years ago, he did look a bit like the blood traitor Black.  He noted that she looked almost exactly the same, but more matured.  He noted the dress she wore covered her chest, _his scar_ , completely, however her back was left completely exposed until the small of her back, it was a perfect silvery white, making her look celestial.  He’d never felt like more of a mortal in someone’s presence before.

Just looking at her these days caused his length to harden and he couldn’t help but allow his thoughts to stray.  He would love nothing more than to tie her hands to that railing and rip her dress to tatters, bending her forcefully over the railings, with one hand gripping her wild locks and the other snaking around to her front to caress the scar sweeping over her body, and taking her hard and fast under the moon and stars, his length pistoning in and out of her with ferocity until she screamed out in sweet rapture.  She could be his perfect, fallen angel.  He shook his head at himself at his ludicrous dream.

 _Old man you truly are a fool._  

This young, heavenly woman was no fit for such a demon as he.

 

**____________________________**

 

“Tell me where Potter is, _dear_ Minister, and your passing shall be quick.” Voldemort sneered from atop of his throne.

Antonin stood in the grand hall of Malfoy Manor, he had felt the mark burning his skin not thirty minutes ago and had come when called, like the faithful dog he was.  Lord of the manor, Lucius, and his wife, Narcissa, stood anxiously opposite Antonin on the other side of the hall amongst the plethora of Death Eaters, with Rufus Scrimgeour on his knees and his hands bound behind his back, facing the Dark Lord with courage.  Antonin smirked at the Minister of Magic’s expression.

 _Must’ve been a Gryffindor_.

“Apologies, _Lord Voldemort_ ,” The old man snapped gruffly, unapologetically.  Antonin was one among the many followers who winced at the use of their Lord’s name in such disrespect. “I have no idea where the Potter boy is.”

Antonin raised an eyebrow at the man’s recklessness. The Dark Lord was uncharacteristically offering a merciful end and insubordination would only lead to pain and distress.  His eyes flitted over to his master where Nagini had wrapped herself around his pale, skeletal feet.  Their Lord glared icily at the grey-haired prisoner in front of him.  His snake like eyes narrowed and he let out a soft hissing noise, evidentially speaking to his pet snake.  Nagini began to uncoil from the Dark Lord and headed towards Scrimgeour, she began to circle him menacingly, occasionally slithering over his calves and feet.

“Rufus, I hope you do not take me for a fool.” the Dark Lord had hissed. “I am perfectly aware you were in charge of Dumbledore’s will which would have required you to visit Harry Potter.”

Rufus’ yellow eyes remained on the Dark Lord with unwavering, foolish bravery. He remained silent, knowing no lie would deceive their master.  There was a stony silence filling the large ballroom.

“Antonin,” The Dark Lord commanded his attention and Antonin obeyed. “Perhaps you could convince our _cherished_ Minister to divulge Potter’s whereabouts?”

Antonin grin was feral and his Lord smirked back knowingly.  This where he excelled.  He wasn’t just good at getting people to talk, he was remarkable at it.  He knew that the Dark Lord was giving him another chance to prove himself useful, to prove himself able to kill Potter and his mudblood. Antonin moved from his stoic position at the side of the hall and slipped his 12 inch hawthorn out from his sleeve, striding towards the bound man on the floor with a vicious disposition.

“Let’s start this of slow, shall we, Minister?” Antonin taunted, with a cruel gleam in his eyes. “ _Crucio_.”

The Minister seemed to freeze, every single muscle in his body tensed as his head was thrown back and his mouth open in a silent scream, a strangled noise escaping him.  Having been under the curse himself, Antonin knew how excruciatingly painful it was, like every nerve ending was being bludgeoned and sliced open, as if flesh were being carved from the body, as if teeth were being pulled from the skull, as if nails were being plucked from the fingers, as if bones were being shattered and eyeballs bursting in their sockets.  However, for the caster it soon became tedious, therefore today he was planning on mixing up the torture.  After a few minutes he let the curse up.

“Now that we’ve warmed up, we shall begin.” Antonin sneered with glee.  He heard his Lord chuckle behind him at his humour amongst the snickering of his brothers and he felt his pride swell. “ _Fulmen!_ ”

Electricity flew from his wand and straight into the Minister who cried out in unexpected pain and toppled onto the floor, beginning to shake violently.  Antonin let the Minister recover for a merciful few seconds before he stepped closer and twisted his wand, allowing the curse to focus on his head, repeating the incantation.  Scrimgeour began to convulse again, his face pressed into the floor and his arms twitching brutally, still fastened, behind him.  Blood started to drip from the Minister’s mouth as Antonin knew he’d bitten down uncontrollably on his own tongue, maybe even biting clean through.  The thought made Antonin chuckle.  Once again he let up.

“Loosened your tongue yet, Mr Scrimgeour?” Antonin chuckled, knowing he was not even nearly done.

With his chest to the floor, Scrimgeour glared furiously and attempted to spit at Antonin but the split mixed with blood barely made it ten centimetres away from his mouth.

Antonin looked from the spit on the floor then back to the growling Minister. “I’ll assume that to be a ‘no’.”  Antonin circled the minister and felt Nagini slither in between his own feet and back up towards the Dark Lord.  He ignored the shiver that ran through him, something about that snake felt sick.  He carried on with his job in front of him.  He pointed the tip of his wand at the prisoner’s calf. “ _Diffindo_.” Antonin murmured, just slicing lightly through the trouser material exposing the leathery skin underneath.

“ _Engorgio Internum_.” He snarled.

Suddenly howls of pain were emerging from the prisoner under his wand as he quivered in agony and trying to turn over, to get away from the wand causing this torment.

“ _Where is Potter?_ ” Antonin snarled.  The question nearly made him laugh out loud.  Here he was torturing the Minister of Magic, in order to coax information out of him for which he already knew.  He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on it too long however, as he knew the Dark Lord’s Legilimency skills were unparalleled and his Occlumency was merely sub-par in comparison.

"Fuck off, Death Eater." Scrimgeour spat hoarsely.

“Have it your way.” Antonin growled. “ _Engorgio Internum!_ ”

The Minister’s cries were deafening as his calf split open, his growing calf muscle had caused the flesh and skin to split from the inside out.  The only thing that could be heard over the top of Scrimgeour’s screeches was Bellatrix’ mad cackles.  Blood was flowing heavily from the lower leg of the captive as flesh and muscle could be seen.

“Now, let’s see what we can do about getting that pesky muscle out of the way.” Antonin sneered. “ _Diffindo!_ ”

Antonin sliced through the Minister’s calf muscle until the bone was prominent.  Another shriek of pain came from the paling man on the floor, causing the room to erupt into laughter once more.  There was a slight click of the door, Antonin momentarily looked up to see Narcissa Malfoy missing from the room and Lucius with a revolted expression.  Bellatrix was now standing next to him with a vicious smile. Antonin, turned back to the prisoner in front of him, whose breaths were coming in sharp, ragged gasps, his eyes shut tight.

“ _Accio_.” Antonin hissed, flicking his wand upwards.

The final cry from the minister was thunderous as his bone snapped and bent upwards, half piercing through flesh and skin in an attempt to fly into the offensive wizards grasp.

“ _Legilimens!”_ Antonin dived into the Minister’s mind now he was sure he was too weak to resist, taking no care to be gentle about the intrusion.  The memory of his own visit was now being covered by the memory he found inside Rufus Scrimgeour’s head. 

Antonin abruptly withdrew and turned to his Lord. “My Lord, the boy and his friends are at the Weasley residence, at a Wedding it would appear.”

As soon as the words left Antonin’s lips, he felt something twist in his stomach and he prayed to Hecate that the little mudblood wouldn’t be killed.  The Dark Lord had nodded and sent a killing curse at the Minister of Magic.  He turned to his followers and ordered a group of them to invade the Weasley Wedding.

Around 10 minutes later, the Dark Lord hissed, as if almost in pain. Antonin remembered being given the order to visit Tottenham Court Road, as the Taboo had been broken, perhaps by an Order member they’d mused.  Thorfinn Rowle was ordered to go with him.  Antonin remembered the surprise he had undergone when he entered the little café and coming face to face with the Trio once more.  Once curses were flying he and Thorfinn soared behind the counter to provide them with some kind of coverage, he shot a few stunning spells over to where the tables were overturned, to give the teenagers somewhere to hide, however in one split second his eyes connected with the Mudblood’s and his insides turned to molten goo, he froze just a second too long when she sent a stunning spell at him and he crumpled to the floor, Thorfinn along with him.  He couldn’t help but feel himself swell with pride at her ability to take down not only him but the hulking Viking that was Thorfinn Rowle also.  She was a brilliant witch, even if she was a mudblood.  She wiped both their memories with an ‘ _Obliviate’_.  He only remembered this due to the Cruciatus curse Bellatrix had placed them both under in order to recover their memories.  Antonin had a sneaking suspicion that the Dark Lord was correspondingly punishing him for yet again letting Potter and his mudblood slip through his fingers, due to the fact that he was tortured for a substantially longer amount of time than Thorfinn was.

 

**____________________________**

 

As he watched the matured girl, she moved from her view of the landscape and began walking through the estate, carrying the last few drops of her beverage in her glass.  It was a cold night, so it was no wonder she had nearly downed the alcohol the moment she stepped outdoors.  His eyes raked over her bare back once more, privately admonishing the girl for not even wearing a wrap, but unable to keep the depraved and lustful thoughts at bay.  He wanted to caress every inch of her exposed skin … and the skin that remained hidden.  He couldn’t help but imagine how a little pool of sweat would collect on the small of her back, if she were on all fours in front of him, stark naked, and trussed up all for him.  It wasn’t as though he’d not known that was where her sweat assembled when she was partaking in carnal activities whilst on her front.  He’d seen it many times when she’d engaged in the activity with Weasley.

 _Fucking Weasley_.

 

**____________________________**

 

What a piss poor hero he turned out to be.  He was selfish, pathetic, hopelessly insecure and weak.  He’d taken to the spotlight like a peakcock, strutting around with his tail feathers on show for all to see.  He yearned for the public eye wherever he could find it and however he could come by it.  He’d spent years as “the other one” in their Trio, only known for being Harry Potter’s best friend and a Weasley, so this newfound fame was clearly a breakthrough for Weasley.  Antonin had seen Weasley milk his relationship with Granger for all it’s worth, making a spectacle of them whenever he could, just to get his face in the papers.  It ended with Weasley cheating on the mudblood when they were 20 with some forgettable, dull blonde, who might have been a Beauxbatons witch if Antonin remembered correctly.  He couldn’t help but have been glad that Weasley cheated, even though it made the mudblood cry and shout and hex him.  She even threw her fist into his face and Antonin remembered chortling at the sight of Weasley with a bloodied nose. 

That was until Weasley wiped his nose and threw his fist right back at her and she crumpled to the floor with the impact.

That’s when everything when black for Antonin.  He never could remember how he got inside the couple’s house, all he remembered was the shattered glass on the cream carpeted floor and Weasley’s terrified expression as Antonin’s strong grip tightened around his throat.  He had cracked the red head’s head against the wall as he drew his wand, holding it a hair’s width away from the boy’s eyeball.  He remembered thinking she deserved better than this pathetic excuse for a wizard who was more than willing to disrespect her and strike her so.  He snarled and bore his teeth at the cowering boy as he brought his hands up to Antonin’s, trying to loosen his grip.

“Dolohov!” Hermione’s smooth yet fierce voice broke Antonin out of his seemingly rage stimulated trance.  He turned slowly to face her, his grip tightening still on the Weasley boy. “Let him go!” Her wand was pointed straight at Antonin’s skull, her expression breathtakingly wild.

"‘Mione!” Weasley chocked out. “‘Mione, I’m so sorry!”

“Shut _up_ , Ronald!” Hermione shouted, her wand never leaving Antonin’s face. “Let. Him. _Go_.” She growled at Antonin.

Antonin hesitated for a mere second before he sheathed his wand, knowing that any use of it will send the auror’s straight for him.  Although he still currently had his hand clasped around the throat of the Head auror’s best friend, which would soon prove to be quite the predicament.

“Good,” Hermione breathed. “That’s good.” She was talking to him as though he were a feral animal, keeping her whisky coloured eyes locked with his icy grey ones. “Now let him go, Dolahov, _slowly_.”

Antonin’s face broke out suddenly in a small smirk.  He slowly loosened his fingers from the shrinking boy, all the while keeping his eyes trained on his favourite mudblood.  Hermione’s wand hand began to tremble and Antonin found that he couldn’t help himself.  Quicker than he knew he could move he rounded on the witch, grabbing her wand arm and lifting it to point to the ceiling as she fired a nonverbal hex, which consequently blasted a hole in the couple’s ceiling, and spinning himself around her, wrapping his other arm around her, just under her breasts and pressing her back snugly to his front, immobilising her.

“’‘Mione!” The red head cried out, clearly feeling powerless without his wand in close proximity.

“Apologies for this, _little lioness_.” He murmured into her ear, nipping her ear gently, unable to prevent himself.  A shudder ran through the young girl as she let out a small whimper.  Antonin mused it was perhaps with revulsion or fear.  He couldn’t allow himself to believe it was with pleasure or else he’d have had trouble not tearing the girl’s clothes off right then and there.  He snatched her wand from her hand and brought her arm down to her side along with her other, holding her waist and both arms close to him with his left and her wand pointed at Weasley in his right. “But I can’t have either of you turning me in.”  His eyes then narrowed at the spineless scum in front of him and flicked the borrowed wand.  Weasley went as still as a board before falling forwards onto the floor. “If you _ever_ attempt to attack her again, I’ll gouge your eyes out with your own wand.” He snarled.

“Ron!” Granger exclaimed, still clearly worried for her treacherous lover.

Antonin then turned his attention to the mudblood in his grasp as she began to struggle.  He brought the hand holding his wand around her also, so he held her across the shoulders.  He nuzzled into her hair and neck taking in her scent. “Don’t fret, _little witch_ , I’ll be seeing you again.” He breathed, taking advantage of holding her so closely, before pushing her away and apparating to a distant location.  Once he arrived at his spot he had snapped her wand in order to stop the aurors from tracing it in case she reported it.

 

**____________________________**

 

“‘Mione!” Antonin was struck from his thoughts when Ronald Weasley’s voice rang through the grounds.  Antonin immediately scowled and his jaw clenched with hatred.  He saw the mudblood visibly tense at her ex-lovers voice, she’d not seen him for quite a few years and by her reaction, Antonin knew that she thought it was still too soon.

“What is it, Ronald?” she sighed, not looking up at him before downing the remaining sips of her drink.

“Well ‘hello’ to you too!” Weasley snipped childishly.  He finally came into Antonin’s view and Antonin could have laughed boisterously if he weren’t looking to remain out of sight.  The red head boy looked like he didn’t even deserve to be in the presence of such a deity as she.  He felt himself subconsciously raising his wand, wishing he could send a bolt of that green flashing light at that bastard, not that he’d ever get away with it being at the Minister’s manor.  Instead he stashed his wand away into his robe pocket.

“Hello Ronald,” Granger groaned, indulging the man-child in front of her. “What is it that you want?”

“I want to talk to you Hermione!” Weasley cried with exasperation. “We haven’t spoken in _years_.” His last statement made him seem pitiful as he made his way closer to the girl with her back still faced to him. “I’ve missed you.” He murmured wrapping his arms around her waist as he rested his chin on her shoulder.

The angel before them sighed once more and untangled his arms from her body before turning to face the ghoul of a man.

“There’s a reason why we haven’t spoken.” She stated firmly, eyeing him warily.

“That was _years_ ago, ‘Mione!” the blood traitor exclaimed in frustration. “Are you _still_ bent out of shape about it?!”

The glower that was etched across her face was the most beautiful thing Antonin could have imagined.  The disdain in her eyes for the boy made him feel intolerably smug.

“It’s not exactly something one just buries and forgets about, _Ronald._ ” She hissed at him with venom.

“It was a _mistake_ , I know that!” he snapped. “It was a moment of weakness!”

“You’ve said all this already.” She snapped, turning from her fellow Gryffindor and walking away, much to Antonin’s excitement mixed with alarm, towards him, towards the perimeter of the wards surrounding the large manor.

Weasley grabbed her arm and spun her back to face him. “What else can I say?!” he barked at her.  Antonin felt his grip on his wand tighten inside his robes as his eyes snapped to the redhead’s vice like grasp on his bushy haired mudblood. “I’ve told you I’m sorry, I’ve told you I didn’t mean it, that she meant nothing!”

“And yet it was worth ruining everything.” The fierce woman retorted with malice. “And what of when you struck me, Ronald? Are we sweeping this under the rug also?” she asked scathingly.

"You hit me first Hermione.” The red haired git snapped.

The curly haired young angel threw his hand off her with a quick swipe of her hand. “You’re pathetic,” She glowered. “Do you really think Harry would have hesitated to hex you into oblivion if I _had_ told him what happened?” she queried rhetorically. “And then agreed it was justified because I hit you _first?_ ” Antonin smirked into the darkness, knowing the little witch had more balls than the weak wizard in front of her ever would.

"I’ve already apologised for that too.” The lamentable man grumbled as his ears tinged pink, which clashed strangely with his hair. “I can’t spend the rest of my life apologising to you.”

“Go away, Ronald.” She groaned, visibly not wanting to waste any further emotions or breath on her ex-paramour.

“You’re such a cold fucking _bitch_.” Weasley responded spitefully. “It’s no wonder I needed to _fuck_ someone else,” he was goading her. “I needed someone to thaw out the frostbite you gave me.”

Antonin grasped his wand so tight he was sure he was about to snap it in two.  It wasn’t until the youngest Weasley boy walked away from her and back into the party that he allowed the weapon to fall lose in his pocket.

He could hear her short little gasps across the garden and he knew she was crying softly as she normally does when she’s worried someone might hear her.  His fury at the Weasley boy grew as he realised his cruel words had caused his celestial to cry.  Antonin adored all of her emotions, her happiness, her anger, her giddiness and her ferocity, but he _hated_ it when she’d shed tears.  She was a thing of beauty when she wept, so pure and chaste, but it felt like a tragedy. To see her face contort in pain, it made his stomach plummet into the depths of the earth.  Antonin considered it a great crime to cause this angel so much anguish.

He moved further forward towards another nearby tree in his canopy to get a better look at her.  The moment he did so, there was a loud snap under his foot.  He moved with such speed behind the large tree that was able to hide his person and looked down to where his foot had created the noise.  A broken old root that was protruding from the ground had broken under his weight, he inwardly groaned, knowing the young witch may not have seen him but she must have heard him.

“H—Hello?” her startled voice unknowingly addressing him was music to his ears.

He didn’t know whether or not to just show himself in order to not alarm her, however he knew that given their past interactions the sight of him would only frighten her further.  He remained quiet and silently begged any of the Gods left that would be willing to listen to him for a distraction to remove her gaze from his cover.

“Is anyone there?” Her gentle voice was now so close that Antonin’s breath caught in his throat, not daring to make another sound to alert the witch of his presence.

“You’re certain the mudblood came out here?” a rasping voice carried over the large gardens and Antonin immediately furrowed his brow in recognition.  He knew that voice, it brought goose bumps to his skin as he realised it belonged to that of Walden Macnair, a death eater who’s tendencies for sadistic violence was even more renowned than his own. 

He heard a small gasp and a shuffling of feet from the small witch he’d been keeping an eye on.  He chanced a glimpse around the tree he’d concealed himself behind and his heart leaped out of his chest as he realised the curly haired brunette was a mere foot away from his person, her back turned to him, unaware of his presence.  He was an arms-length away from reaching out and burying his hands into her locks, however he was frozen, his heart thudding so hard in his chest that he was sure she could hear it.

An arrogant chuckle surfaced in the air that definitely didn’t belong to Macnair. “Of course I am, Walden,” the unmistakeable, silky-smooth, aristocratic voice of Rabastan Lestrange floated through the grounds.  “The Weasley fool was loud enough with his bellyaching for the entire ball room to hear the whereabouts of Miss Granger.”  

Antonin supressed a growl as Macnair snickered with glee at the confirmation.  As much as he hated to agree with anything the calculating and callous Lestrange brother had to say, he was right, Weasley was a complete and utter fool.  Antonin knew that Weasley didn’t want any serious physical harm to come to his old paramour, however he’d lost his temper enough with her to thoughtlessly put her in danger.  It was too much to assume that the freckled git should have known better. Antonin had realised his density over the past few years and couldn’t fathom why his mudblood would choose to be with someone so beneath her academically or personally.

Antonin was shaken from his thoughts when he heard the voices of Macnair and Lestrange drift closer to them around the botanical gardens.  Granger took another step back into the cover of the canopy of trees and bushes, and stood so close to him now that Antonin had to stop himself from breathing, knowing that due to the proximity, she’d be able to feel his breath on the back of her neck.  It suddenly dawned on him that she was now past the wards of Minister Shacklebolt’s Manor and being so was vulnerable to all manner of attacks from the two ex-death eaters who were closing in.  He narrowed his eyes at the mudblood, realising that due to her unsavoury upbringing, she had forgotten about the use of her wand, her protection, in all her anxiety, which was currently still holstered somewhere on her person.  Antonin had a good idea that it was where she usually kept it when wearing a dress.

In one swift motion he grabbed the witch, ensuring to put a hand over her mouth to muffle her scream, as the other snaked around her waist, holding onto her tightly as she flailed in alarm.  Her own hands grabbed his arms in an attempt to pull them off, however her efforts were fruitless.

“Hello again, Lioness.” He whispered to her trembling form. “Are you finding yourself in a spot of bother again?”  He knew now was not the time to tease, however he couldn’t help himself when it came to his mudblood.  She whimpered softly with fright into his hand and he knew she was inwardly debating who she would rather be captured by, himself or Macnair and Lestrange.  Antonin couldn’t allow himself to care at that point, he wasn’t giving her a choice in the matter. “Are you carrying your wand?”  She didn’t respond at first until he gave her a small but firm shake, causing her pulse to thud heavier.  She nodded unevenly at his question, perhaps in a hope to scare him off.  Antonin simply chuckled softly at her action. “And you didn’t think to use it? Oh, Miss Granger, I am, quite frankly, disappointed.”  He smirked into her hair as he used the hand holding her firmly against him to pull her dress up her right thigh.  She began to thrash wildly in his hold in an attempt to throw him off of her as the terror took over and she screamed loudly into his hand.  He squeezed his hand over her mouth even tighter that he was sure was causing her pain due to the loud whimper that was emitted from her throat, however he needed her to stop moving and to keep quiet.  He pulled her dress up until the slit that descended from her knee to the floor was now high up on her thigh.  He grabbed her wand from its holster and allowed the dress to fall back into place. “Hush now,” he cooed into her hair as her struggling lessened.  He noticed that the two former death eaters also occupying the grounds must’ve heard the noise she had made in her panic as their footfalls increased in speed and volume.  They were heading straight for them both. 

“ _Shit._ ” Antonin cursed quietly enough for only the witch in his grasp to hear.  “Forgive me for this.” He whispered to her, and using her wand yet again, disapparated them both out of the grounds with a resounding ‘ _crack’_. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For such an angelic young thing, you really have a sinful habit of lying.” Dolohov growled, snapping Hermione from her dazed state.
> 
> She glowered at the former death eater and ripped herself from his grasp, as she did so she felt his fingers fortuitously tear a few locks from her scalp. She reached up to where the strands of hair had been pulled as if somehow the pressure would heal the wound.
> 
> “Then you’re the Devil.” She spat at him, backing away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Right guys, sorry this took longer than I anticipated to get out! I've also had to elongate the fic slightly so just one more after this to go!
> 
> I'd like to say thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos! I cant believe how well this was responded to and i hope you enjoy the latest chapter for this fic!
> 
> This next chapter is quite a bit darker than the first so I must warn you there is alcohol and substance abuse, assault and graphic violence and rape / non-con. Please don't read if this is going to upset you.
> 
> Again in this chapter characters are as follows:
> 
> Hermione Granger - Emma Watson  
> Antonin Dolohov - Jefferey Dean Morgan  
> Rudolphus Lestrange - Matt Bomer  
> Ron Weasley - Rupert Grint

They emerged in a wooded area with no sight of civilisation anywhere around and Hermione hoped she could recognise something, _anything_.  There was hardly any possibility of that happening as the woods were so dark she could barely see five feet in front of her. A small part of her hoped she’d been apparated to the Forest of Dean where she could potentially run and find her way out, but it was painfully obvious that she had no idea what woods these were or even what part of the country she was in.  She groaned and felt her knees buckle as the feeling of side-along apparition caught up with her, however she never hit the floor.  The large arms still wrapped around her from behind held her up.

“Falling for me so soon, _L’vitsa?_ ” Dolohov’s Russian twang crept into the rest of his sentence as he used his mother tongue in mirth.

Hermione tensed immediately, remembering exactly who was holding her from behind. “Dolohov.” She breathed as fear overcame her.  She was caught in the middle of the unknown woods, in the pitch black, with an at large, convicted Death Eater, who had her restrained and wandless.  She felt her throat tighten as Dolohov moved her hair to the side with one hand, fisting her curly locks and nuzzled her neck.

“Mmm?” He moaned into her neck, allowing his tongue to trace up behind her ear and then moved his lips along her jaw. “Are you frightened?” he rasped as he moved his hands to grasp her hips.

She didn’t want him to know she feared for her life, she couldn’t bear giving him that satisfaction, that _power_ over her.  She hoped if she seemed strong, he wouldn’t think to try and frighten her further. “No.” she hated that her voice whispered what was mean to be a compelling answer, ultimately undermining her demeanour.  

He chuckled into her hair then quickly spun her around, moving his hands down to her posterior and cupping her cheeks.  He pulled her hips into his and bucked, she felt his hard length against her stomach causing her to gasp in distress, only just realising what he might intend on doing with her if he wasn’t planning on killing her.

“What do you want?” She squeaked into his chest and her cheeks reddened at the noise.

“Well, _Myshonok,_ ” she saw him smirk as the moonlight descended on them, running one hand up her bare back. “I believe you could hazard a guess.”

Hermione made a strangled gasp of disgust and pushed her hands against his chest, struggling to get away from him. “I would _never_ touch you, Death Eater.” She hissed at him.

Dolohov snarled with fury and gripped one of her wrists tightly whilst the other wrapped itself around her slender neck and squeezed.  She wheezed and her large brown orbs flew wide with fear as her free hand reached up instinctively to grab onto his own clasped on her oesophagus, attempting to wrench herself free.  He yanked her face towards his and crushed his mouth to hers.  He bit down onto her bottom lip, forcing her mouth to open with a ragged pant and his tongue forced itself into her mouth, attacking her own with vicious need.  He squeezed harder on her throat as he lost control of his own impulses and only when he felt her garrotte a sob into his mouth did he regain restraint.  With one last nip following by a soothing suck on her bottom lip, he removed his lips from hers, but his hand never moved.  He stared into her whiskey eyes and she could see his were black with desire.

“I’m _all_ you have, _Granger_.” He growled at her. “Where’s your beloved _Potter?_ Or the Weasley _rat?_ Do you really think that any of those _fools_ at the party would even notice that you didn’t reappear tonight? If you didn’t appear for a few days?  How _long_ do you think it would take them to notice you were missing?” She couldn’t rip her eyes away from his as she could ascertain it was his rage and his rage alone at the wheel at that moment. There was absolutely no rationality or mercy present on his face as he continued to tower over her, maintaining his grip around her throat, closing off her airway. “ _Weeks? Months?_ Do you know what I could do to you in that time? How far I could break you into thousands of tiny pieces? How much I could twist and snap your brilliant mind? What _delicious_ things I could do to your _delectable_ body?”

“D-olo-h-ov!” she chocked, seeing spots in her vision.  Her grasp began to weaken on his hand and she barely noticed his final snarl at her as he released his grip on her throat.  This time she did fall to her knees, the crisp autumn leaves on the ground cushioning her fall barely as she gasped and spluttered whilst trying desperately to replenish her brain and lungs with oxygen.

“You’ve been pushing people away, little lioness.”  Hermione could hear his anger dissipate in the nickname he bestowed on her.  She grasped at the leaves and twigs under her palms and squeezed her eyes shut, still feeling relatively faint from the lack of oxygen she’d recently experienced.  “It would be wise of you to keep your friends close in times like these.” His voice was low as she felt his hands grasp her under her armpits and she barely had time to struggle in his hold as he pulled her to her feet.  He didn’t press her into his chest this time, however he still stood close enough that he could trace his thumb over her swollen bottom lip. “Well, perhaps not your abusive _Weasel_.” He murmured, as he moved the pads of his fingers from her lip and up her jaw in an uncharacteristic display of affection, as if the moments previous where he’d tried to strangle her had been nothing more than a playful game between them.

Hermione scowled at Antonin rubbing her throat. “ _He’s_ abusive?” she croaked.

To her utter disbelief Antonin chuckled as he wove his hand into her chestnut curls. “Sorry about that, Precious.” He uttered, massaging her scalp lightly. “I don’t respond well to rejection.” He furrowed his brow with a small smile. “Exclusively from you, it would appear.”              

Hermione shifted uncomfortably.  She knew of Antonin’s strange obsession with her but she had no thought as to why. 

**____________________________**

She had picked up on it the year Voldemort had been defeated.  At first she’d thought she was going mad.  Her possessions in her and Ronald’s quaint home in Kent had begun to go missing or were being moved or rearranged.  Initially, she’d thought Ron had been rifling through her things and when she had angrily questioned him about it, he’d made a poorly timed joke that he thought she didn’t even _own_ a hairbrush due to the state of her mane.  She never did find that hairbrush again and after the hexing she gave Ronald, he never made a joke at her expense when she was in such a foul mood again.  Her belongings continued to disappear and move about the house, including a few books and trinkets which were nothing of major importance but it was irritating and nerve-racking nonetheless. 

It wasn’t until after one night, mid-October 2001, she’d taken off the engagement ring Ron had given to her on her 22nd birthday before turning in, placing it on the nightstand next to where she and Ron slept.  She awoke the next morning to find it gone.  When she began to question Ronald on its disappearance, he hotly denied touching it and maintained that he’d slept through the entire night.  Hermione remembered the panic that set in whilst she frantically tore apart their bedroom looking for it with tears pricking at her eyes as her fiancé angrily stomped out the house, shouting up the stairs to her that “She’d better not have bloody lost it as she wouldn’t be getting another one”.  She began to question her memory of putting the ring on her bedside table, wondering if perhaps she’d maybe taken it off in the kitchen as she was washing the previous night’s dinner plates.  She’d rushed downstairs and began to search high and low in the kitchen, allowing only one sob to tear from her chest at the thought of losing something so precious to her.  After an hour of searching and failing to recover her ring, she sat on the floor of the kitchen with her face in her hands.  She wondered how something like this could have happened. She didn’t understand.  She wasn’t the sort of person to cry over lost material things but this was _Ron’s_ ring.  The ring _he_ chose for her. The ring that would bind them forever, and now it was gone.

She was on her own in their house for most of the day.  Ron only came home for 45 minutes at around 2pm for a spot of lunch before heading back out again.  He told her he was working at the ministry today to clear his head, but Hermione knew it was a lie.  She could read him like a textbook.  He was angry with her for losing the ring, that much was obvious, but Ronald would never go to work to ‘clear his head’, most likely he’d gone to Harry and Ginny’s to have a major bitch about his careless intended.  Where he was off to in the afternoon Hermione didn’t know, she just hoped where ever he went, he’d come back to her with a smile and an embrace like he normally did at the end of the day. 

She spent her afternoon cleaning up the mess she’d made on her hysterical mission to locate the engagement ring and she did so without magic.  She found it therapeutic, fixing a mess with her bare hands, it made her feel grounded and in control.  It was a life lesson her mother had taught her, “Tidy house, tidy mind”.  It fixed almost everything.  _Almost_ everything.

That evening she’d made dinner for her and Ron.  She’d cooked his favourite, beef wellington with mash, garden vegetables and gravy, just like Molly would make him.  However, no matter how many times he smiled and kissed her forehead and thanked her for a lovely meal, it was never the same as his mothers.  She was under no illusion that she was a better cook than Molly Weasley, mother of seven, but she had the sneaking suspicion that most things she did for him, in his eyes, fell short of what his mother might have done.  It didn’t matter anyway, he hadn’t come home.  It got to 10:30pm before she gave up thinking he might come through their front door, with an affectionate smile, happy she’d made the effort to wait for him before eating.  She charmed his plate to say warm whilst she threw hers in the bin, her appetite vanished.  She headed upstairs and even her trudging footsteps had sounded miserable.  She got to the head of the stairs when she paused, hearing a creaking floorboard come from their bedroom.  The bedside lamp was on in her bedroom and she saw a shadow move across the part of the room she could see through the crack.  She furrowed her brow, wondering why Ron hadn’t made his presence known when he walked through the door, and why he went straight upstairs.  She slowly began making her way to their bedroom again, apprehensive that he was still angry with her.  She could hear him rummaging around in their room and she briefly wondered if he was looking for her ring.

“Ron?” She called out softly, not wanting to startle him.

She heard something clatter to the floor as she reached to open the door further.  Suddenly the door slammed in her face and she jumped back in shock.  He never uttered a word, merely closed the door with such force, her toes were nearly clipped.  Anger suddenly filled her being at the thought of him just shutting her out because of a misplaced ring.  She pushed on the door and found it wouldn’t budge.  She tried harder and still it wouldn’t give.

_That bloody bastard is standing in front of the door!_

She remembered thinking.  She knew he could be such a child but this was beneath him. 

“ _Ronald!_ ” she shouted as she banged on the door, shoving her weight against it to force it open. “Ron, open the door!”

Suddenly she heard the front door open and close. “Hermione?” His voice echoed through the house and she felt her stomach plummet through the floor.

She backed away from the closed door in front of her, her face slack with horror.  Something smashed in their room, and Hermione backed away until she hit the bannisters at the top of the landing.

“‘Mione!” he shouted, clearly also hearing the shattering of glass.  As he appeared at the top of the stairs, Hermione ran to him, her heart pounding almost right out of her chest. “Hermione, what is it?” He asked, his voice laced with concern as he rubbed her arms soothingly.

Hermione pointed to their closed door, with tears in her eyes. “Th-There’s someone in there!” she’d never felt so babyish.  She’d survived a _war_ for Merlin’s sake, but _this_ had her cowering behind her betrothed like a toddler scared of the monster in her closet.

Ron whipped his wand out and burst their bedroom door wide open.  He raced inside to confront the intruder as Hermione followed him in, not wanting to be left without him for a second longer.  At first, Hermione was confused to see no one apart from the two of them in the room, however the broken window and glass that lay shattered on the floor proved that someone had indeed been in there moments before.

Of course, reports were filed with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement but no one was ever caught for it.  Despite Hermione’s claims of seeing a human sized shadow and something strong enough to keep her out of the room, the officer assigned to her case chalked it up to be merely a stray Niffler had burrowed into their house for a few months. Hermione seethed as her statements were dismissed in such a blasé fashion. She _knew_ someone had been in her home, and she was fairly certain it wasn’t their first time in there.  It must’ve been a witch or wizard.  How else could something enter her home so easily without triggering her wards or even making any kind of forced entry? 

Whenever she complained to Ron about the officer’s dismissive attitude towards her claims, Ron was sympathetic and kind, knowing she’d been frightened, however there was something in his unenthusiastic reactions that caused Hermione to feel that he believed she thought she’d seen someone in their room, however due to years of childhood trauma during their time at Hogwarts and constantly looking over their shoulders whilst on the run had turned Hermione paranoid and that she saw danger where there was in fact nothing harmful in the slightest. 

Again, Hermione began to question her own judgement, wondering just exactly when she turned into Mad-Eye Moody.  She began to question whether the shadow she’d seen had just somehow been a trick of the light.  Maybe the noise she’d heard come from the room was Ron apparating outside their door.  Maybe the creature, or whatever it was, had broken their window in a panic, hearing her voice.  But the one thing she couldn’t understand was what creature was large enough to get into her home completely unseen but yet be able to prevent her from getting into the room?  None of it made sense.

She hadn’t known it at the time, but that was the first time she’d ever caught Antonin Dolohov in her home.

For a few months, Hermione tried to forget about the incident.  She chalked it up to, as the officer had spent so long convincing her, a mischievous niffler break-in.  They’d brought in the Magical Creatures Control to scour the house for the animal, however they confirmed that the small creature must have spooked that night and didn’t come back.  Hermione kept her eye on things around the house and found that nothing had been going missing, which calmed her slightly.  After a few months, however, things began moving again.  It was things she wouldn’t have previously noticed, like a jumper worn a few days before, or a lipstick she applied before heading out for dinner with Ron, Harry and Ginny.  Now, she made certain to place her possessions in specific spaces around the house, allowing her to be definite that something or someone was touching her things.  She also kept an eye on where Ron’s things were, and noted that not once did his belongings ever relocate.  This unnerved her to no end but she felt as though she couldn’t voice her concerns to Ron, as he’d just look at her with the same pitying expression and try and assure her that everything would be fine. 

She gradually became more of a recluse as the months went on, not wanting to leave the house in case of another break in, and not trusting her things to not go moving all around the house the next time she was absent.  It hadn’t gone unnoticed by her friends but she couldn’t seem to stop her mind from focusing on the fear that surrounded her home. 

One morning that winter, Hermione stood in front of the stove, cooking herself and Ron omelettes as Ron took a shower.  She absentmindedly hummed a song to herself that she was unable to get out of her head for the past few days.  It brought a slightly annoyed smirk to her face as she was unable to place the name of it, but continued to hum it anyway.  She started sprinkling chopped up ham into the omelettes, adding peppers to hers and tomatoes to Ron’s.  She started sprinkling the cheese over Ron’s meal when something in the garden caught her eye.  Something in the grass near the end was sparkling at her in the cold winter sun.  Initially she thought it might be the frost on the ground but she realised it was sparkling so bright that she knew the frost wouldn’t cause that kind of glint.  She placed the spatula down on the kitchen surface and walked out the back door of the house, slipping on the sandals permanently left on the door matt over her bare feet.  She shivered as the icy breeze blew through her hair and she regretted not slipping something warmer on before letting her curiosity to get the better of her.  Her thin, shell coloured nightdress did nothing to protect her from the cold and she was glad their small house was surrounded by large evergreen trees to avoid the prying eyes of their nosey neighbours as she felt her nipples protrude almost painfully against the fabric and the cold.  As she reached the glinting object she crouched down to pick it up and she gasped in shock.  Her engagement ring lay there amongst the grass, nestled in there as though it had been trodden into the ground.  She picked it up and frowned.  It felt frozen and dirty and she had to stifle a sob at the mixture of fear and relief she felt at recovering the precious piece of jewellery.  She looked up, in thought, musing the reasons behind why her ring had been out here when her eyes met a pair of black ones and her knees immediately hit the excruciatingly cold ground.

She wasn’t able to gasp or whimper or scream.  She froze, unable to move or make a sound as she stared into the black orbs of Antonin Dolohov.  His expression was dark and foreboding, his teeth bared at her as he sucked in a hissing breath.  His gaze moved from her face down to her body and the leer that took over him was more than she could bear.  The fear that overtook her was immeasurable as she knelt there, clinging onto her ring as if letting go of it would somehow leave her more vulnerable to the wanted death eater in front of her.  She didn’t know how long she spent on her knees before him, unable to look away lest he attack.

“‘Mione what in Merlin’s name are you doing?” Hermione snapped her head around to see Ron smirking at her from the house, she looked back in front of her to see that the dark wizard was no longer there.  She hadn’t realised how cold she was until the fear-induced tears that had filled her eyes trickled down her face as she felt the familiar sting of uncertainty that had plagued her for months since the break in.  Her once most useful and trusted tool, had now seemingly turned against her.  Was she going mad? Ron certainly would think so if she described what she just thought she saw.  She quickly wiped her tears from her cheeks while she shakily got to her feet and made her way back to her fiancé, thinking it better that she ignore the trick her mind had just played on her. 

“Merlin’s beard, Hermione!” Ron gasped as he felt her ice-cold skin. “Get inside now!”

As she made her way inside, all the while still shaking from fear and the freezing weather, she stopped at the stove and stared at the burned breakfast.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, turning the stove off and getting rid of the blackened meals. “I’ll make us more.”

Ron appeared behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “What were you doing out there?” he asked her again as she whisked the eggs.

Hermione held her hand up to show the glinting ring on her finger.  “Look what I found!” she tried to put on her most casual and happy tone. Ron was easily fooled, often hearing what he wanted to.

Ron was ecstatic to find that Hermione had unearthed the engagement ring, however it would end up being all for nothing the night Ron realised Hermione’s claims of someone breaking into their home were true.

**____________________________**

“Where are we?” Hermione breathed, as he traced his fingers curiously over her skin with the corners of his lips turned upwards.

“Why would I divulge that information?” Antonin asked her, a genuinely confused smile etched across his devastatingly handsome face.

Hermione couldn’t help but feel a blush creep up onto her cheeks as she realised she not only thought of Antonin as a handsome man, but a _devastatingly_ handsome man.

“I asked you if I frightened you, Granger, and you said ‘no’.” Antonin pulled Hermione’s face closer to his in a much gentler manner than he had before and his lips where so close to hers that she could feel their breaths mingling. “I fear I may have misspoken, so allow me to rephrase my question.”  His hand was still tangled in her hair, pulling mildly, sending jolts of pleasure down her spine. “Do I make you _nervous_ , sweet girl?”

Hermione opened her mouth to give a biting retort, but nothing came to mind.  She stood there, blinking dumbly with her lips parted.  She couldn’t think with his face that close to hers, something she was renowned for doing yet he could so easily take it from her.  She couldn’t allow herself to be pulled in by him.  She should be pulling back with disgust.  She shouldn’t be indulging him in his obsessive fantasy.  She took an uneven breath in.

“No.”

“For such an angelic young thing, you really have a sinful habit of lying.” Dolohov growled, snapping Hermione from her dazed state.

She glowered at the former death eater and ripped herself from his grasp, as she did so she felt his fingers fortuitously tear a few locks from her scalp.  She reached up to where the strands of hair had been pulled as if somehow the pressure would heal the wound.

“Then you’re the _Devil_.” She spat at him, backing away.

Antonin took Hermione completely off-guard and grabbed her upper arm roughly and shoved her into a nearby tree trunk. He flew at her pinning her to it with his own body, positioning his knee in between her legs. He seized her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand allowing the other to roam her supple form.

“If I’m as _malevolent_ as you say, I should have _taken_ you the second we apparated here.” He snarled into her ear as she shook with fear and what she hated to identify as anticipation.  He moved his hand to trace up her waist and grip breast with such force Hermione gasped at the intrusion, he pinched her rigid nipple almost painfully and she cried out, teetering between pleasure and pain.  He grasped Hermione’s hip and pushed his own into her.  She whimpered as she felt his stiff, pulsating cock press against her through both their clothing.

“I might just claim you now anyway.” He spat, moving his hand into the slit of her dress, moving his fingers hurriedly up her thigh, practically unable to contain himself.  Unable to move, think or breathe, Hermione could feel herself shaking, her breathing was now coming out in sobs and moans, altering between the two.  The moment she felt his hand cup her over her knickers, she felt tears sting her eyes, unable to process her fear or arousal.

“Please don’t.” her voice was less than a whisper but almost immediately, Dolohov’s hands froze.  Inky blackness met teary mahogany and his features immediately softened as he pulled back from her.

In an almost gentlemanly display, he released her wrists and straightened her dress, taking her hands tenderly in his and leading her away from the tree.

“I apologise, _L’vitsa_.” He murmured softly, seemingly trying to calm her. “I got carried away and I shouldn’t have.  It was unbecoming of me.”

Hermione couldn’t figure out the man in front of her.  He had essentially assaulted her and described it as ‘unbecoming’.  He also made her feel things she’d never experienced before.  Her heart was still thudding in her chest and tears were still prickling in her eyes but she couldn’t deny the wet patch that she was too ashamed to admit had appeared on her knickers.  Antonin brushed a runaway tear off of Hermione’s cheek and tucked a wandering lock behind her ear before retracting his hands from her.  The silence stretched between the both of them until Hermione finally broke it.

“Why did you bring me here?” she whispered, eyes cast downwards.  She didn’t trust Antonin to be able to hold back from flying off the handle again.

There was a lull between them for a few seconds.

“I didn’t plan to.” He answered uncertainly. “I brought you here to protect you.”

Hermione slowly met his eyes and was surprised to note that his face seemed slightly apprehensive of her reaction. “ _Protect_ me?” she muttered, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“You do realise there are those who want your head?”

Of course she knew the world still wasn’t safe for people like her; muggleborns.  Especially her; a meddling muggleborn. Yet the words still tumbled from her lips with ardent displeasure. “What does it matter?” She asked him hoarsely, wincing at the pain in her throat. “Voldemort is gone, his followers are locked up, dead, or scattered.”  She ignored as he grimaced at her use of his precious Lord’s name.

“What of Macnair and Lestrange?” Dolohov asked, narrowing his eyes on her. “Free men.  Men who would do you harm if given half the chance. A chance they were almost given tonight.”

Hermione shook her head. “They wouldn’t have killed me.” She wasn’t entirely certain but she knew they must’ve feared going back to Azkaban enough to resist the act of murder. “Especially not with so many witnesses at the party.” She shuddered out a nervous chuckle; she must’ve been delirious to find anything funny in her current situation. “I mean, in the way of intelligence I’ve learnt not to expect much from Macnair, but Lestrange is just as calculating and sharp as any professor at Hogwarts worth their salt.”

Dolohov raised an eyebrow at Hermione. “I never said they wanted to snip your head from your shoulders.” He gave her a stern look that had an underlying licentious leer. “I believe their intentions with your pretty little head were far more desperate and depraved.”  His look then turned relatively dark. “I would have thought that you would have learnt that lesson by dealing with Rabastan’s brother last year.” Hermione flinched, her memories of Rodolphus were far from pleasant and she felt her throat tighten just at the thought of what had transpired. “I wouldn’t disparage Macnair either if I were you.  What he may lack in intellects he more than makes up in his skills for brutality and debauchery.” His tone was cautioning and harsh.  “If I hadn’t snatched you tonight, I believe he would have raped you half a dozen times already and that would be just to warm up.” Hermione wasn’t sure if he was intentionally scaring her but he was doing a rather good job as her breathing hitched and her stomach fell through the forest floor.  “The Dark Lord didn’t keep him around just because he a predisposition for violence.  He installed such a fear into his victims that it turned them dangerous and unpredictable to their companions.” He paused for a long stretch of silence and stared into her molten pools of coffee before adding. “We both did.”

Hermione gulped at the prospect fretfully. She’d honestly not thought of that, which seemed ridiculous seeing as that’s all she could think about with the surprisingly gentle criminal in front of her.  But what shocked her more, was that the thought of Macnair and Lestrange’s hands all over her made her shiver in a completely different way to the thought of Dolohov’s had.  She’d also not expected such a confession from Dolohov regarding his time as one of Voldemort’s followers, however she couldn’t say she wasn’t surprised.  Her thoughts were plagued with him ever since the war had ended.  He’d haunted her even after she’d left Ron, which scared her even more so as she was at her most vulnerable.

**____________________________**

She had cried, screamed and thrown things at Ron the night she found out he’d been shagging one of Fleur Delacour’s cousins after meeting at the French beauty’s birthday party.   She could have throttled him but instead settled for a well-placed fist to his nose.  One he uncharacteristically returned.  The ringing in her ear as she stared at the carpet her face was currently pressed against prevented her from hearing the stone that broke their window into shatters and the nefarious wizard that jumped through it subsequently.  When she managed to lift her watering eyes to see Dolohov pinning Ronald to the wall, she spring to her feet whipping out her wand from her back pocket, demanding Dolohov let Ron go.  She didn’t want to cause Ron further harm by stunning the wizard who was currently crushing his windpipe, so she settled for bargaining with the man, convincing him that if he complied she wouldn’t stun him.

It didn’t go at all to plan, however, Dolohov had managed to escape them both, taking her wand with him.  She supposed it was a small victory that neither of them were too injured by the encounter, however things between them both were now irreversible.  He apologised profusely for straying from her and for striking her, however she knew she would never trust his words again, rending their relationship fragmented and hollow.

She moved out of their home within the week, unable to stand living in the same quarters as Ronald and not wanting to be left alone in the house that Dolohov was so accomplished at breaking into.  She found a small flat in Bournemouth that she was able to move into.  She didn’t confirm her address to any of her friends, wanting to be left alone for a while and not wanting Dolohov to gain any knowledge as to where she had moved.

She’d begun to feel slightly more stable knowing no one was breaking into her small flat nor following her around, however she there was a different type of insanity to be had behind the confines of her cage, disguised as her new home.  She knew there was only a certain amount of time she could spend hidden behind the walls of her prison before she’d need to revisit the supermarket, even if it was only to stock up on more wine as her last bottle had run dry.  

She’d taken to finishing at least a bottle a day, as her night terrors began to return, hoping it would knock her out for the night.  However they kept coming, so instead she began to drink her bottles of wine as some kind of consolation, knowing what was to come in the night. 

Along with the night terrors her spasms of pain remnant from the war had returned in her stress and lack of sleep.  The pain was so much so that she’d sought out both a muggle doctor and a medi-witch, both of whom gave her prescription extra strength pain relief potions and pills.

She’d leave the house every few days to go to her part time job at the local bookstore, making certain to keep her hood up on the journey as to not attract any glances or chance any recognition.  As far as her friends or colleagues at the ministry were concerned, Hermione Granger had fallen off the face of the Earth, and that’s how she planned on remaining until such a time she was ready to return to her old life.  She knew she wasn’t showing any kind of Gryffindor spirit by running from her problems; it was very un-Hermione of her, but she knew she’d have everyone coming at her from all angles wanting to know if she was ok, if she was ever going to forgive Ron, if she was coming back to work, if she’d known Dolohov was stalking them, if he was _still_ stalking them, if she had any idea how worried they were.  These were all questions Hermione couldn’t bear to answer at that moment in time.  She wasn’t even sure if she was able to answer them.  She needed time away; time to think.  Whether it was a few weeks, months or even years, she had to give herself the time to grieve her relationship and process the pain.  She was still reeling from the idea that the entire ordeal with Dolohov hadn’t been in her mind and she wasn’t becoming unhinged, he actually _had_ been following them.

_Following you._

A dark voice in her head insisted.

Ever since the night Dolohov stole her wand, Hermione hadn’t bothered to buy a new one.  She knew wands could be traced and if you wanted to remain hidden, magic was a dangerous tool.  When she’d leave her house, fumbling through her keys she’d secure each of the three locks on her front door and jiggle the handle back and forth, concluding that no one could get in.  She’d do the same each night she came home from work or the supermarket, locking each lock from the inside of her flat, including the golden chain, adding the extra layer of safety to her new residence.  She was aware she’d been less than warm to her new neighbours.  She never conversed with them and when they came to her door to speak with her for whatever reason, be it to welcome her to the building or complain about how she disposed of her waste, she never could bring herself to open the door, her heart would thud in her chest at the prospect of a stranger even seeing the inside of her abode.

One evening she’d visited the supermarket after work and come home. Going through her normal routine, she unlocked all of the locks on her door then promptly locked them again once inside.  She unpacked her groceries for the week and choosing quickness for quality, she opted for the microwaveable meal, spearing it four times with a fork she put it on the glass revolving plate and set the microwave up for five minutes cooking time. 

She pulled a bottle of South African Stellenbosch wine from the super market bag and removed the cork, pouring herself a large glass.  She sighed as she swallowed her first mouthful of the rich, red nectar and moved towards the bedroom, glass in hand.  Feeling warm, she put her glass on the bedside table and removed the large jumper she’d donned that morning, revealing the strappy camisole underneath and threw it on the chair in the corner of the bedroom. She removed her jeans that had become uncomfortably creased throughout the day, leaving her in just her knickers, and grabbed her glass of wine before she made her way back towards the kitchen.  She took another large mouthful of her wine before the microwave ‘ _dinged!_ ’, signalling her food was ready.  She peeling the plastic back from her meal and crinkled her nose at the horrid smell.  She sniffed the contents of the microwavable packaging and quickly grabbed the outer packaging which displayed the instructions for cooking and use by date.

_Great, it’s off!_

She remembered growling in her head as she swiftly binned her dinner for the evening.  She eyed the bottle of red on the counter and made the decision that it would have to make do.

Within an hour of sitting on her couch and watching a programme she could scarcely remember, she’d gotten through and entire bottle and felt rather intoxicated.  The loneliness had begun to set in as she began to crave contact from another person.  She’d been away from everyone in her life for a month and the only people she’d spoken with were the checkout workers at the super market, her muggle doctor and medi-witch, who luckily was too old to even be able to see Hermione let alone recognise her, and boss and colleagues at the book shop, all of which were muggles.  Even then the words spoken with these people were never more than one word answers or more than she possibly had to.  She just couldn’t bring herself to have anyone know who she was.  The last thing she wanted was a surprise visit from Ronald or Harry or, Fates forbid, Dolohov.

She opened a second bottle, feeling tears spring to her eyes and poured herself out another large glass, nearly distributing half of the bottle.  She made her way back into the bedroom and began to undress, knowing that a shower might soothe her erratic emotions.  As she stripped down she looked at her bed in longing.  It had been so long since she shared her bed with a wizard.  She and Ron hadn’t made love months before things deteriorated between them and she couldn’t help but crave the intimate touch of another person.  Taking a large gulp from her beverage, she felt her hands travel down herself, feeling her fingers move along her skin, trying to pretend they were another’s.  She set her glass down as she allowed her other hand to wander around her chest, plucking and pinching at her nipples, feeling them stiffen beneath her own touch.  Her former hand travelled speedily down to the apex of her thighs and she allowed the pad of her middle finger to circle the button mixed in with the plethora of nerves of her slit and she breathed out a gagged sigh of relief.

Feeling her standing pose wasn’t quite the optimum position on her own, she determined the position course of action would be to lie back on her bed.  As she did so she spread her legs wide apart allowing her finger to travel up and down her slit, feeling the dampness that had congregated there in her ministrations.  She dipped her finger into herself and pulled it out again, slowing fucking herself with her finger to stretch herself out once again.  She quickly became even wetter as the sensation forced a groan to emit from her throat and being turned on by the noises of sex, she slipped a second finger into herself, rocking her hips upwards to meet her palm.  After pumping in and out of herself for a few blissful moments she pulled her fingers out, tracing them up past her bundle of nerves and through her wiry pubes and exhaled drunkenly before sinking her fingers back down again, this time allowing her other hand to unite at her centre, flicking over and around her clit whilst plunging into her centre with the two fingers on her other hand.  It wasn’t long until she began convulsing around her own fingers and whimpering as she bit her bottom lip.  A force of habit Ronald had bestowed on her.  He’d always worried that the neighbours would hear whenever they had sex so the room would be filled with the low grunting of Ron and the sound of skin slapping on skin.  She came with another stifled whimper as she stilled, stiffening her legs as every muscle in her body tensed.  With a final shudder her body relaxed and she sighed a breath of relief. 

Feeling marginally better she rose from the bed and made her way over to her ensuite, ensuring to grab the her glass of wine as she did so. Hermione turned the shower on and adjusted the temperature.  She took another swig from her glass and set it down on the sink next to the shower and raised her eyes to glance at her face in the mirror.  Her face was pink and breathless from orgasm and her hair had become slightly wild due to the copious glasses of wine causing her to run her hand through it; it hadn’t helped that she’d been frantically pulling at it before she used both her hands on her mound.  She took a final sip of her wine before setting it back down on the tiled surface and stepping into the steam filled shower, closing the door behind her and standing in the small cubical, facing the wall where the heat settings were placed. 

She scoured her skin raw, attempting to get the awful smell of that bookshop off her.  Normally, she’d rejoice, hell, she’d be in pure heaven at the smell of books covering her.  Now, it just reminded her of her old life and who she used to be; the Hermione who helped Harry through the tests under the school to protect the Philosopher’s stone; the Hermione who was petrified by Salazar Slytherin’s basilisk; the Hermione who helped Harry free Buckbeak and Sirius; the Hermione who aided Harry in the trials of the Triwizard Tournament; the Hermione who fought beside Harry and Ron in the Department of Mysteries; the Hermione who sobbed alongside Ron and Harry at Dumbledore’s funeral; the Hermione who destroyed Horcrux’; the Hermione who fought a war.  This new Hermione she’d been for the past year was someone she didn’t recognise.  She was weak, paranoid and introverted and Hermione felt ashamed of who she’d become.  She didn’t deserve the smells that had once pleased her so.  The scent of books made her feel powerless as she just couldn’t find that old spark inside her, no matter how deep she searched.

She scrubbed shampoo and conditioner into her hair, attempting at a new conditioner she’d picked up at the shop to tame her wild hair.  Her wild hair was another reminder of who she once was.  Wild haired Hermione was brazen, fearless and quick-witted, now she was lifeless, sullen and rude.  She couldn’t bear looking at it each day; she’d once hated the sight because she thought of it unattractive and unkempt, but now she looked at it and realised it didn’t suit who she was now, and that she was undeserving of the heroine’s crown on her head.  She washed away the suds and grime of the day, feeling morose as the scalding water spreading over her making her feel, if possible, even lonelier.  She breathed a heavy sigh as the water trickled down her face and turned the water off.  She squeezed the remaining water from her hair and wiped the water from her face, allowing her to open her eyes comfortably.  She turned and reached for the door of the shower when her heart leapt into her mouth and her knees almost buckled beneath her. 

There on the condensation misted glass was a handprint.

She wondered for a moment if, in her inebriated state, she’d put her hand on the glass without realising it.  She held her hand up to the hand mark and could instantly tell by the sheer size of the print that it was definitely not hers.  In a moment of blind panic Hermione shoved open the shower door, causing it to clang on the tiled wall and grabbed the closest towel to her, in her haste she knocked over the wine glass causing it to shatter and for red wine and glass to spill across the bathroom floor.  She couldn’t breathe enough to swear at her clumsiness and proceeded to wrap the towel tightly around her naked form.  Breathing shallowly, with a look of what she was certain was pure fear etched across her face, she moved towards the open door of the bathroom, wondering if she’d shut when she walked in.  She was certain she’d stepped in the red wine as she moved into her bedroom as she tracked footprints of red in with her, however that was the last thing on her mind.  Her eyes darted around her bedroom as she willed them to focus, desperate to sober herself.  She moved into the living room of the house and quickly ran towards the kitchen counter where she quickly opened the drawer and with trembling hands pulled out a large kitchen knife.  With the knife in hand she moved around the apartment slowly, checking in every crevice and possible hiding spot she could think of, calling out once or twice in an unconvincing slur that she’d called the police.  She’d checked the front door and windows and found that every single lock was still in place.

She checked her flat twice and found nobody there however she was still sorely tempted to bang on her neighbours door, however she thought perhaps her neighbour wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed so late in the evening by a drunk girl in a towel asking them to come over and check under her bed for monsters.  She couldn’t help let out a delirious giggle at what would sound like a deranged pick up line or plot to a porn film.

She began to feel dizzier than she had before she’d taken her final sip and wondered if the alcohol was finally catching up with her.  She flopped into a laying down position on her couch, feeling unable to make it to her bed and began to feel a throbbing in her right foot as she lost part of her hearing and heat crept up her neck.  She moved her legs so they were bent as she began to see black spots and realised that she might faint.  Turning her right foot so she could see the throbbing area she realised the entire underside of her foot was coated in what at first she thought was red wine, however with a minor touch, she realised the warm red liquid was blood.  She noticed a shard of glass protruding from the ball of her foot.  Hermione grimaced as she pulled the glass slowly from her foot, making her worried she might lose the wine she’d ingested earlier that night.  As she pulled the glass out, she realised how big the fragment that she had stepped on was.  It was a deep wound and the moment the final bit left her flesh, a river or deep red blood began to ooze from it.  Feeling the glass slip from her hand, her world promptly faded to black.

The next morning, Hermione had woken with a blinding headache.  She whimpered into her pillow as she willed to world to fall away from her.  After a few moments of horrid realisation that the world wasn’t going anywhere, she opened her eyes blearily and blinked a few times to allow her eyes to adjust to the light.  It took her a few moments of looking around to realise that she was in fact in her bedroom and not on the couch where she believed she’d passed out.  Then the memories of last night came back to her.  She threw back the covers to see that she was wearing a pair of old grey jogging bottoms and a horrid pink camisole top.  She could feel her hair was still slightly damp from the shower but those were the least of her worries.  Who had dressed her in her passed out state?  She already knew the answer but didn’t want to admit it.  The thought frightened her desperately.  But she knew _he_ was the only one who’d be able to find her after she’d been _so_ careful, after all the precautions she’d taken and get into her house without so much as a lock out of place.  She moved off the bed and let out a cry of pain.  She was relieved to realise that the paid had been caused by her foot and not an uncomfortable ache she’d feared she’d feel between her legs.  She sat back on her bed and looked at her foot, seeing that the blood that had covered her foot last night was now gone.  All that was left when she removed the bandaging was a cleaned wound.  Why would _he_ help her?  Why would he _… take care_ of her?  She furrowed her brow in confusion as she hobbled across the room over to the bathroom.  The room was clean.  There was no glass, no wine, and no blood.  As she looked around her home, retracing her steps from last night where she’d tracked blood around her home, she found none now.  She even noticed that the glass she’d pulled from her foot and the knife she was carrying were nowhere to be found.  The cleaning up seemed confusingly helpful and kind at first but now she had a kitchen knife missing and the thought had made her want to sob in fear.

The next few weeks took Hermione into a downward spiral.  She knew she couldn’t move again.  The galleons she’d received for the First Class Order of Merlin award mainly went on the house her and Ronald had bought together, then on the new flat when that all went down the drain.  Now, she was having to live off the remainder, and not wanting to leave the flat in fear of another break-in meant not being able to go to work, and not going to work mean she needed all the money she could get to live off.  She went through bottle after bottle of wine, after all, there was little else to do whilst spending all of her time at home apart from watch the same TV programmes over and over and falling deeper and deeper into a depressive, desperate state.  Her night terrors and pain spasms returned with blinding force, like never before and she found the only way to dull her senses and fears was through a mixture of wine, the prescriptive potions and medicine, and a little help from the fumes of the bleach she kept under the sink, even if it meant keeping herself in a prolonged state of inebriation. 

Her belly had been empty for days, with the exception of her cocktail of sensory deprivation and water, and she was unwilling to order any kind of food to her doorstep, not knowing who she’d be inviting into her home. 

In her intoxicated state, she decided enough was enough, she needed some kind of food in her stomach and made the decision to brave the shops.  Hermione pulled on a pair of worn jeans and threw a coat over her frayed jumper, throwing the hood over her head as she did so.  She grabbed her purse, stepped into her most comfortable boots and shuffled out the door, locking the three different locks behind her, jiggling the handle through habit.

She fumbled her way through the supermarket, throwing bags of pasta and other long-lasting foods into her trolley.  She stocked up on wines, whiskies and gins and chucking a couple of cucumbers in there, remembering her father’s fondness for them when coupled with gin.  As she held one of the cucumbers she felt tears spring to her eyes as she indulged herself for a rare moment and allowed herself to think of the father she would never see again on the opposite side of the world.  She chuckled quietly at the sight she must’ve made becoming teary over a vegetable… or was it a fruit?

She moved into the next isle once she covertly dried her eyes and began browsing at the cutlery.  She picked up one of the larger kitchen knives and turned it over to look at the price.

“You do look rather foreboding wielding that.” A haughty, drawling voice broke her out of her reverie.

Her eyes flew up to meet the killing curse green stare of none other than Rodolphus Lestrange, standing in the middle of a muggle supermarket, in wizarding robes, in Bournemouth.  She dropped the knife into her trolley out of shock and gulped, her mouth turning dry as the Sahara.

“I hear you’ve been terribly naughty Miss Granger.” The former death eater sneered at her, making a show of fingering his wand in his robes, only allowing Hermione to see the wooden weapon.  “There are a large amount of people looking for you.”

“What’re _you_ doin’ere?” She hissed, holding onto her trolley for dear life, lest she find herself sinking to his feet.

“What I’m doing here is none of your business.” He retorted heatedly.  He made a step closer to her and Hermione made a defensive step back, taking the trolley with her. “I’d be held in quite high regard at the ministry if I brought you home safe and sound, wouldn’t you say?”

“‘ve done nothin’ wrong.” Hermione grumbled disjointedly. “You can’t make me go back.”

Rodolphus narrowed his eyes at her in irritation, as if she’d insulted him. “Miss Granger, do not underestimate the things I could and _would_ ‘ _make you do_ ’.” He dropped his head so he was at eyelevel with her and glared maliciously. “And given you’re current state, I’d say I’d be able to make you do what I want very easily.”

Hermione made an incoherent noise that conveyed trepidation causing Rodolphus to smirk smugly. 

“Come.” He ordered as he turned, billowing his cloak behind him. “We will apparate to the ministry from the alley.”

“No.” She blurted out, finding her courage.

Rodolphus whipped his head around to face her again, his expression furious. “ _No?_ ” He formed the word as if it had never dared been uttered to him before. “Miss Granger, whilst I appreciate your spirit, I will _drag_ you from this shop if need be.”

Hermione glowered at him, stumbling over her foot slightly. “I’ll create the biggest scene you’ve ever witnessed if you lay a hand on me!” She spat. “No one would let you get five steps with me without calling the police.”

Lestrange’s glare soon turned into a triumphant smirk that made Hermione quite nervous. “Miss Granger, all that alcohol has damaged your so-called ‘gifted mind’.” He hooked the hilt of his umbrella around her shoulder and pulled her to him roughly so she stumbled forward.  He grabbed her arm and held her tightly.  “If the muggle authorities are called, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will also be involved, wouldn’t they?”

Hermione felt her stomach sink, she looked at Rodolphus’s disdainful face and felt a humiliated blush creep up on her face. “Please.” She resorted to begging. “Please, Mr Lestrange, don’t make me.” A horrid smirk spread across the head of the ancient household’s face. “ _Please?_ ”

"And why, pray tell, would I concede to your pitiful pleading?” He sneered, his grip on her upper arm tightening.

“I can’t go back yet.” She whispered desperately. “When I do, you can take me, I _promise_ , and I’ll make sure everyone knows you were the one who found me.  They’ll start trusting you and may even give you your family’s seat back on the Wizengamot!” She was clutching at straws but she needed to tempt him enough to consider letting her go.

He appeared to silently regard her for a moment before loosening his grip on her arm.

“Very well, Granger,” he smirked at the witch. “But I intend on keeping a very close eye on you until then.”

Hermione felt a small part of her anxiety melt away at the wizards concede.

“Now, why don’t you run along and pay for your groceries,” he sneered at her as his use of the word ‘groceries’ was filled with mocking discernment. “And then we’ll take them back to your home.”

Hermione suddenly felt her anxiety sky rocket again. “ _We?_ ” she questioned him, badly hoping she’d misheard him somehow.

“Yes, _‘We’_.” Rodolphus leered at her fright. “You seem fairly incapable of pushing that trolley around let alone carrying everything back with you.” He leaned closer to her and narrowed his eyes. “Besides,” he growled. “Like I said before, I intend to keep a _very_ close eye on you.”

Hermione gulped as he beat the end of his umbrella against the floor, breaking her frightened stare. “Come now, be quick about it.” He barked. “The sooner you pay, the sooner we can leave this dreadful place.”

Hermione paid for her items in record speed and true to his word, the pampered pureblood was helped her carry the plastic bags back home.  She remembered thinking of ways to potentially shake the fearful wizard who was remaining close, however she knew with certainty that in her inebriated state she couldn’t possibly outrun him and with no wand she wouldn’t be able to fend him off.  She realised that in their encounter, he hadn’t done anything particularly reprehensible to be eliciting such a reaction from her, however she couldn’t shake the feeling that his intentions were less than honourable.

She’d begrudgingly allowed him access to her building and her front door, in order for him to carry the heavy bag up the flights of stairs but not wanting him to see more of her personal space than absolutely necessary.

“Thank you Mr Lestrange.” Hermione grumbled awkwardly, staring at anywhere her unfocused eyes could apart from his face, not wanting to see that damned unnerving smirk he was most definitely sporting. “I think I can take it from here.”

“Not going to invite me in Miss Granger?” came his arrogant response. “Surely with this plethora of alcohol, you plan on having _someone_ to drink it with?” When she didn’t give him a response and merely shuffled in place he chuckled. “Oh, _Hermione_ ,” she shivered involuntarily at his use of her first name. “Colour me shocked, I didn’t expect Potter’s mud— _muggleborn_ to become a drunken layabout.” As the slur was quickly covered up, Hermione’s out-of-focus eyes met his in alarm.  It was clear in the way he almost sounded irritated by using the preferred term that he still didn’t hold her in very high regard.

“Um, it’s not tidy.” She garbled, unable to think of a better, inoffensive reason for him to not enter her living quarters.

“I’m sure I’ll survive.  Open the door, Granger.” With nod to her front door.

She fumbled with her keys, her hands trembling at the thought of someone who barely knew her and still despised her seeing the inside of her home, having access to somewhere so personal in her life.  She hardly needed another Dolohov in her life.

As she opened her front door, Lestrange pushed his way in past her.  He stood in her living room with an insufferable smirk on his face.

“You really weren’t being facetious when you said it’s not tidy.” He sneered at her, obviously referring to the overabundance of grimy glasses and unwashed clothing strewn about the flat.  Hermione tried to ignore him, taking her own grocery-filled bag over to the kitchen counter.  She began to take the items from the bag, carefully packing away each bottle or packet, drawing out the process to avoid speaking or looking at the oldest Lestrange. “Taking potions I see.” He casually mentioned, as if he were pointing out a bar of chocolate she’d left on the side.  She felt herself stiffen at the observation.

“They’re for the pain.” She murmured, not taking her eyes off the bottle of gin in her hand.

“I know only too well about dulling the pain, Miss Granger.” Came his reply and she realised instantly that he’d known she wasn’t using them for their prescribed usage. “Would you like my help in that regard?” He sounded closer and Hermione barely noticed that she’d pulled a fresh glass from her cabinet and poured the clear alcohol into it. “I know a handy spell.”

She took a large gulp from her drink and felt her head swim instantly, it wasn’t called ‘Mother’s Ruin’ for nothing.  “Spell?” she found herself asking.

“I believe you’re familiar with it.” He was _definitely_ closer, his voice was more of a murmur but she could hear it clear as day. “It gives the recipient an unbelievably euphoric feeling of peace,” She turned to him with the newly bought knife in hand and realised that he was standing almost close enough to touch her. He wasn’t smirking or sneering at her.  He stared at her with what seemed like a request in his eyes. “It can also be quite enjoyable for the caster.” She regarded him with a furrowed brow and took another sip of her pick-me-up to calm herself in light of what he was suggesting, placing the large knife onto the kitchen table absentmindedly. “Do you know which spell I speak of?”

Hermione nodded at him still contemplating his proposal.  “The Imperious curse.” She whispered, her breath being taken away by the thought of allowing a wizard she feared so much to have complete control over her.  He could get her to do anything.  He could get her to hurt herself or others, but at that moment in time she felt no regard for her own safety.  She didn’t want to feel so lost and afraid anymore.  She was willing to go to extremes to feel anything else and yes, this was extreme, but it also felt right at the time.  She should have known then and there deciding on such a thing, she wasn’t in her right mind at all.

“What will you have me do?” She asked cautiously and his eyes lit up in excitement as she didn’t turn his offer down absolutely.

“Where’s the fun in that?” He taunted her with a grin.  She gave him a wary look and he sighed. “Nothing too sinister, Miss Granger.  Perhaps, you’d make me a drink or perhaps you’d hop on the spot. I haven’t quite decided yet.”

Hermione had contemplated it for a few minutes, allowing the alcohol to burn its way into her stomach, filling her with a strange pseudo courage to whisper a soft “Ok.”

His eyes danced with triumph and he gripped her shoulder as he gave her what she was sure he thought was a reassuring smile. He lifted his crooked wand that reminded her so much of Bellatrix’ walnut dragon heartstring she’d taken from Malfoy Manor to her face.  Seeing a wand so similar to the one that had put her under the Cruciatus Curse, she was suddenly feeling relatively fearful that he would use that curse instead of the curse he’d promised.  Before she could voice her concerns she heard him give a small whisper.

“ _Imperio._ ”

Things became somewhat fuzzy at that point in her memory.  She remembered feeling elated and safe and peaceful.  Only bits and pieces had come back to her about being placed under the Imperius Curse.  She stood infront of Rodolphus who had made himself comfortable on her sofa with a whiskey in his hand, his cloak had somehow made its way onto the back of one of the chairs of her kitchen table and her radio was playing some old song she’d not heard before.  She remembered looking at the clock above her TV and realising that it had been a few hours since they’d returned from the supermarket.

“Miss Granger, smile.”

Hermione turned to him and gave him a brilliant smile, to which he smirked at.

“Did I tell you to stop spinning?” Hermione shook her head at him and the uncontrollable urge to spin overcame her and she continued to do so.  She began to feel dizzy and it showed in the stumbling manner in which she continued to spin and that’s when Lestrange took pity on her.

“Stop.” He commanded. “Come sit, _Hermione_.” He drawled, and she obeyed without question.

She sat next to him on the sofa, the feeling of absolute bliss continuing to course through her.  He chuckled as she took her seat. “No, no, no sweet, chaste Hermione.” He pointed to his left knee. “Sit _here_.”

Without hesitation, she rose from the sofa and walked around him to his left side and perched on his leg.  His arm snaked its way around her and rested on her hip.  It felt absolutely heavenly.

“Pull your hair to the side.” He purred at her and again she submitted without faltering. “And give me another pretty smile.”

She beamed at him as though he were the sun and she’d been kept in the dark for years and she felt like the happiest woman in the wizarding world.

“Gorgeous.” He hummed into her ear, and kissed his way down her neck.

Something in Hermione, deep down, felt wrong.  The majority of her felt euphoric sitting in the lap of the handsome wizard but there was a niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach that almost like she should be somewhere, anywhere but here.  That feeling was quickly diminished as he released her from his grip.

“It appears my glass is empty again.” He murmured to her as he drained the remnants of his glass.  He swatted her bottom. “Be a good girl and get me another drink.”

She served him another whisky neat and stood in front of him once more as he took a sip, awaiting her next instructions.

“I think I want to see you dance next, Granger.” He rumbled hoarsely as the Whiskey burned through his chest. “Take off your jumper first.” The horrid feeling came back with slightly more force this time, so much so that it caused her to hesitate under his control. “I said,” he growled, his expression turning from playful to aggressive in a split second. “Take _off_ your jumper.” He gripped the wand in his hand tighter.

She whipped her jumper over her head, almost instantly this time, not in control of her own actions. His eyes racked over her chest in appreciation as she hadn’t thought to put on a bra that morning.

“Now, come over and sit back down here.” He pointed once again to his left knee, his eyes flashing dangerously.

She complied without question, her heart had been thudding in her chest uncomfortably, however she still felt that odd sense of pleasure but it was now mixed with a small sense of dread.

“If you’re not going to comply with me, I’ll take the curse off of you and that exquisite feeling will go away.” he threatened as he put his arm around her once more. “And then I’ll do what you refuse to anyway.” He snarled, gripping tighter on her hip. “Do you understand? Answer me.”

“Yes.” She breathed, unable to stop the words tumbling out of her mouth.

“Good.” He growled. “Now give me another smile, Granger.”

She smiled at him again, however this time her smile gave her no feeling of pleasure as the last couple had.  Her feeling of dread grew steadily as his expression grew merciless and cold.

“Kiss me, mudblood.” His command was a cruel one but the force behind his request made Hermione powerless to resist.

She gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek, finding a small loophole in his order.  He snarled and grabbed her wrist pulling her so she was unable to pull back any further.  She was so close to his face she found herself wondering why he hadn’t just kissed her if he wanted one so badly.

“Kiss me as you would a _lover_ , _mudblood_!” he snapped. “On the mouth.”

Hermione pressed her lips to his, capturing his bottom lip between hers.  With excruciatingly slow, sweet movements, she pried his lips apart with her own and her wet tongue leisurely met his.  She heard him groan into her mouth as if she were causing him great pain.  He gripped her hips tightly and swivelled her on his lap so she was straddling him.

“Roll your hips.” He growled and she complied.

She could feel him hardening underneath her and she tried to focus on the elated feeling she was supposed to feel under the curse, not the current sense of alarm that was building in her chest due to his requests and her actions.

He greedily grabbed at her breast with one hand painfully and flicked his fingertip over her perky nipple making it to attention.  His other hand squeezed her hip, pushing her down harder into his lap, whilst consecutively trying to meet her thrusts, the wand in his hand digging into the flesh of her hip.

He allowed her to kiss him softly for a few moments longer, clearly enjoying the affection in her ministrations, before he attacked her mouth with his tongue as if he were hurriedly trying to devour her.  His hand left her hip to button her jean button and zip hastily.

“Stand up.” He breathed into her mouth.

She jumped off him as if he’d burnt her, feeling better-off being away from his touch.  The heady sensation of the curse filled her up again and she was unable to stop a hum of bliss erupting from her throat.

Rodolphus grinned at her, clearly mistaking her pleasured noise as one for him as opposed to the curse.  He ripped her jeans down her legs, taking her knickers along with them and ordered her to step out from them.  She stood in front of the former Death Eater, naked as the day she was born and he raked his eyes ravenously over her body. 

He stepped closer and put his hands between her legs.  Instinctively, she jumped back from him.  A loud clap filled the room and her eye felt like it was about to burst from her socket as the skin on her face felt hot and stung like she’d been burned by the whitest fire.  Dreamily, she grabbed her face, dazed and confused, she looked back at Lestrange who was glaring maliciously at her.

“I told you to comply with me _Granger_.” He snapped, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her unneeded force into the bedroom.

“Get on the bed.” The order was barked at her, however, as he threw her onto it anyway, it was unnecessary.

He rid himself of his clothes with a swift swish of his wand, then dropped it onto her hardwood floor with a clatter.  Almost immediately, as the wand left his hand, the curse was broken.  Hermione’s world came crashing down around her as the high of the curse vacated her body and the pulse pounding terror set in.

“I _told_ you what would happen if you didn’t comply with me, mudblood.” He roared as she managed to jump off the bed quickly however still feeling relatively lightheaded due to the alcohol still in her blood.

She made an attempt to run past him back into the living room, nevertheless he grabbed her easily and in a fit of despair and panic, Hermione reached out and smacked the back of her hand hard around his face causing him to grunt in pain.

She recoiled from him, her eyes wide with fear. “Wait, Lestrange, no.” She breathed, backing away from him with her hands outstretched, hoping that the gesture would stop him as he turned to her with the darkest look she’d ever seen. “Please, I—I’m sorry, just leave, _please_.”

Her pleading wasn’t going to help her, she should have known even back then.  Lestrange rounded on her with furious vehemence and punched her in the gut, causing her to double over in agony, severely winded and struggling to breathe.  He thumped his fist against her face and she collapsed onto the floor like a rag doll, the metallic taste of blood flowed hot into her mouth.  As she lay there on the floor, he grabbed her mane of hair, clobbering her once more across the face with his knuckles then kicking her remorselessly in the stomach as she lay on the floor once more and let out a groan of pain. 

If she thought the smack he’d given her in the living room had hurt previously, she was wrong.  Now she lay on her bedroom floor, blood covering one side of her face and dribbling from her mouth and a loud ringing in her ears.  Bruises were already forming on her torso as she was sure he had broken a few of her ribs. Before that moment she hadn’t know the meaning of pain but now she had an extremely good idea of what it entailed.

She felt his slender fingers wind their way back into her hair and she thought he might punch her again, however, with a whimper she scrambled onto her hands and feet to stand as he pulled her up painfully and dragged her back into the living room, where he yanked her over to the kitchen area and threw her against the kitchen table, causing one of the chairs to fall over. 

With her front pressed onto the table she couldn’t find the strength to fight him.  Her eye was swelling from the impact of his hits and the pain from her ribs made her feel on the brink of losing consciousness.  He kicked her legs open and pressed one hand pressed firmly at the top of her back, preventing her from standing up. She suddenly felt his rigid cock at her entrance.  She squeezed her eyes shut and felt hot tears land on the table beneath her as she gasped and sobbed, trying desperately to get that ‘out of body’ experience many rape victims had claimed to encounter.  As he pushed into her she let out an anguished cry of despair and he grabbed harshly onto her hip.  He was suddenly snapping his hips, thrusting into her with malevolent force, not caring that she wasn’t properly lubricated and therefore in pain.

She made the odd observation that he’d not uttered a word to her since he’d released her from the Imperious Curse, the only noises he’d been making were the grunts from hitting or thrusting into her.  As her mind raced a million miles an hour, she also found herself wondering why her usually unwelcome shadow that lurked in her house hadn't come to her aid at any point and that thought tore another helpless sob from her throat.

She opened her eyes which were blurred with tears.  Her blood was smeared across the kitchen table from the wounds on her face and she moved her hands to try and wipe some out of her eye.  It was then that she saw the large knife she’d bought that day, laying on the table in front of her.  In his temper and rashness, Rodolphus Lestrange hadn’t noticed the weapon right in front of them both.  Without thought for her own safety or what repercussions it might bring, she reached out and grabbed the blade.  She swiped it behind her and heard him curse loudly as he retracted from her.  She turned quickly to see that she’d caught his arm and part of his chest.

“You fucking _mudblood whore_!” he roared, charging at her.

Everything had happened so fast she couldn’t process what had happened.  She remembered him grabbing the knife, fighting with her for dominance over it.  Punching her in the side a few times to get her to let go, however she somehow maintained her grip on it.  She was stamping on his feet when she could and attempting to knee him in the groin.  Hermione wasn’t sure how she managed it or how he’d let her get the better of him but suddenly there was a slip and the knife was in his stomach.  The witch and wizard both stilled as a guttural groan emanated from his throat.  He looked down at the knife protruding from his stomach and her hand still holding onto the handle.  Her eyes were wild with the promise of impending victory and she twisted the knife in his stomach causing him to cry out in agony.  He struck her across the face with a deafening blow and she fell to the ground, pulling the knife out of him as she went.  He pounced on her once more in order to grab the knife from her, however due to his heavy stab wound he was marginally slower than before and wasn’t quick enough to dodge when she thrust the knife into his neck.  He made a gurgling sound and blood came splattering out of his mouth onto her face.  As she pulled the blade back out blood began gushing heavily from the wound.  He jerked backwards, falling to the ground and pressed his hands to the gash in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but it was to no avail as nearly, what Hermione could only assume to be, half his body’s blood had already seeped out onto the tiled kitchen floor in that short amount of time.

Rudolphus writhed on the floor for a few more seconds while he gurgled through the blood filling his throat and lungs in an attempt to scream.  He suddenly finally fell still and it was all Hermione could do to stare at his lifeless, bloodied body. 

She felt numb through shock and barely registered her front door open and close.  It wasn’t until a pair of black boots came into view that she looked up, her eyes wide and tear-filled.

“I—I didn’t mean to!” she gasped through sobs. “ _I’m sorry_!”

And she saw that Antonin Dolohov could only stare at the scene before him in shock.


End file.
